


Intertidal Zone

by standalone



Series: Fucking Political Bullshit exR Coffeeshop AU [10]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Speeches, Surprise Party, and so must I, but the politics keep on going, friends - Freeform, hard to say what's going on here exactly, there is not even sex in this one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-05
Updated: 2018-10-05
Packaged: 2019-07-25 11:57:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16197062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/standalone/pseuds/standalone
Summary: "Years from now, when our children and grandchildren ask us where were you at this inflection moment in history, our answer will be what we did to participate, to give back, move forward." —U.S. Senator Kamala Harris (D-California), Oct. 4, 2018





	Intertidal Zone

“No,” Enjolras says, halting. “No. Nope. What? No.”

Shit. 

Grantaire can’t say he didn’t expect this, not exactly. But he at least hoped he might get away with it.

Fucking Jehan and his fucking distinctive laugh. How are you supposed to trick your boyfriend into attending a back-room surprise party he absolutely doesn’t want when your goddamn friends can’t keep a surprise a surprise?

At this point, they’re stopped just a few steps into the restaurant, and it’s actually looking not impossible that Enjolras is going to pivot and escape while he still can. 

There's no way Grantaire could've pulled off getting them even this far a couple days ago, on Enjolras’s real birthday. Today, padded by a safe blanket of time, he'd almost convinced himself it was going to work. 

It _was_ going to. They'd gotten here, to the restaurant, ostensibly to meet up with Rahwa and her new boyfriend Juan for a nice dinner out, but then at the exact moment they entered, a massive eruption of laughter exploded from the back room, with Jehan’s soaring cackle cutting unmissably through it, and the jig was up. 

Is up.

If he lets go of Enjolras’s hand, the guy’s gonna be out of here like a rabbit fleeing hawks. 

Grantaire’s not sure how to play this. Does he keep up the sham, or is that just embarrassing now? Or admit the truth and beg? Neither seems great. 

But then, thank god for Rahwa, before Grantaire has time to find his way to any kind of exit from this quandary, the door behind them opens and she trips lightly in, hand tight in that of her boyfriend, who turns out to be one of those rare straight men who can pull off a polo without looking like a golf dad. Unlike Grantaire, Enjolras doesn't really pay that much attention to people's bodies, but he does like Rahwa and probably is curious about who she's seeing, and the momentary distraction of introductions and kisses and handshakes buys Grantaire the time to usher them out of the foyer and into the back room, from which there is, for Enjolras, no way out but through.

*

Grantaire has forbidden them to yell “Surprise!” Of course they do anyway, the fuckers, packed scores-deep into the gracious private room, holding wine glasses and little bites and grinning like they don’t all know Enjolras hates this.

At once pale and flushed, like some painting of a medieval prince, Enjolras manages to stand straight and bear—not gracefully, no, but with some simulacrum of tolerance—his friends’ love.

“Thanks,” he says, when the hullabaloo softens. “I—.” 

He looks around at everyone, looks at Grantaire, who is for sure visibly sweating with the effort of having gotten Enjolras here, and thinks better of it. “Thanks,” he says again. “Where do I get a drink?”

Courfeyrac bounces forward with a shrimp roll in one hand and a glass of sparkling wine in the other, and plants noisy kisses on both Enjolras’s cheeks. 

“Did we _get_ you?” he demands excitedly. “Did you know we were here? You didn’t, did you?” 

“Who did this?” Enjolras demands back, folding his arms over his chest. 

“I _love_ surprise parties, Enj, you know that, and no one ever throws me a surprise party. You fuckers should throw me a surprise party, you know.”

“You always plan your own party three months in advance,” Combeferre points out from behind Grantaire, and Grantaire takes this opportunity to squeeze Enjolras’s arm and duck away.

“So, I have some thoughts on that...,” Courf’s saying as Grantaire makes his way to the bar.

He tosses back a shot with the bartender, who is maybe 22 and clearly frazzled by the number of local political luminaries present.

“I _voted_ for them!” she hisses, surreptitiously pointing out the state’s Controller and Deputy Attorney General, who are making small talk with Musichetta over a tiny table heaped with grilled things. 

“You just moved to the city?”

She laughs. “Everyone says you _get used_ to seeing all the politicians,” she says. She pulls a clean cloth from below the bar and wipes up the water-rings from someone else’s drinks. “I’m not there yet.”

“A politics enthusiast?” 

“I mean, at some point, I’m gonna be president.” She grins. “Give me some time on that, okay?”

Grantaire asks for a glass of red. He sticks $20 in the tip jar. 

Having a real job hasn’t made him forget the years of food service, and now, at last, he has the money to back up his inclination toward generosity with occasional actual generosity.

“Another for the road?” she asks, setting out another shot glass, but he says nah.

“Thanks though. You’re doing great.” He doesn’t want to say he’s the one paying for the event, but hell, he wants to at least say this: “It’s my boyfriend’s party.”

“Oh, shit,” she says, eyes widening. “Sorry, I should’ve said. Someone is dancing all the way _up_ on that dreamboat.”

Grantaire turns, but it’s just Courf, still, arms pumping out to the side while he shimmies against Enjolras. Grantaire laughs.

“You’re cool with that?”

“Sure, but you see that face he’s making?” Enjolras’s fake smile looks like it weighs so much it’s gonna pull his jaw off. “I’ll take that shot, too.”

*

By the time he’s waded back over, Courf’s backed off a little, but only because half a dozen other friends have crowded in to congratulate the birthday boy. Grantaire slides through till he’s up in Enjolras’s space, a shot of whiskey in his forward hand. He leans in to murmur.

“Someday, this pain will be—”

Enjolras pulls back, bewildered and betrayed. “Give me your drink,” he says.

Grantaire hands it over, smiling, and watches Enjolras kick it back.

“You’re going to be glad,” he says, with certainty because he _is_ certain. Enjolras is great at getting yelled at. He’ll handle wave after wave of vicious reactionaries without losing his footing. He’ll yell back, sure; he’s no paragon of restraint. But he’ll stay standing. It’s only praise that takes him off-guard. He doesn’t know how to handle appreciation. 

His eyes skim the room—its tasteful lighting, the elegant white molding and linen-draped tables, the pleasantly popular music that hums above the swell of the crowd. The party’s come off well. The food is plentiful and good, the drinks abundant, the friends and colleagues and well-connected acquaintances jocose. 

“You have another?” Enjolras asks. 

“You think I’m the kind of guy who double-fists it at his own boyfriend’s very serious birthday full of very serious and important people?”

“Give it.” Once he’s got Grantaire’s wine, too, and has downed a good couple gulps, Enjolras looks around too, seeming to see this place for the first time. “Why _are_ there so many serious-and-importants?” Several members of city council are mingling awkwardly with the presidents of the closest colleges’ Young Progressives.

“Have you tried the arancini yet?” Grantaire snags two tiny skewers from a nearby tray. “They are _excellent_.” He hands the snack to Enjolras. “Excuse me,” he says to the woman behind him, whom he vaguely remembers from the last time Enjolras dragged him to a meeting of the County Board of Supervisors. “Let me move out of your way.” He slips past her, leaving Enjolras to weather her compliments about the “really compelling stuff” he wrote in last month’s op-ed about the disingenuousness of the state senate’s “affordable housing” legislation.

This is how you build a coalition.

*

Grantaire meets up with Jehan at the bar, where Jehan is ordering sparkling water with cranberry, and spends an enjoyable ten minutes chatting with Jehan and the bartender about how probably no one in the world actually likes a surprise party.

“Courf does,” says Grantaire.

“He said that?” Jehan shakes his head, curls swishing. “We threw him one in college, and dear boy, I will confess for him that he threw up.”

“Metaphorically or literally?”

“Throw-up is always literal,” says the bartender, shaking her head.

“It is,” Jehan concurs. “It was disastrous.”

“So why does he want a surprise party?” the bartender asks.

“Well, Bossuet got him out-of-his-mind high that night, so...” Jehan takes a knowing sip of his sparkling water, “the smart money’s on ‘he doesn’t remember.’”

*

Half an hour of miscellaneous chit-chat later, most people have had a chance to say hi to Enjolras, who has moved over near an enormous painting of three oranges, where he still looks sulky but in a softer, more approachable way. 

“Let’s go check in,” Combeferre suggests, nodding Grantaire over from where he’s been catching up on Musichetta’s plans for Musain phone-banking.

Grantaire envies Combeferre, whose hands are broad enough that a single one can manage both a little plate of the grilled things and also a glass of wine, leaving the other free to wrap warmly around Enjolras’s shoulder. 

Enjolras helps himself to one of ‘Ferre’s stuffed mushrooms. “How could you let this happen to me?” he demands.

“Grantaire insisted it would be good for you,” Combeferre says. Combeferre’s voice is very deep, richly deep--the kind of voice Grantaire thinks he might jack off to, if he jacked off to voices. That’s not really what gets him off, but still, he gets why it might work on other people. ’Ferre tosses him a lopsided grin. “Right?”

’Ferre is still draped, tall and regal even in the slouch, against Enjolras, his slim-cut suit shirt tugging loose from the flat waistband. 

“How many drinks is this, Combeferre?” asks Grantaire, saluting with his own glass.

“Don’t care to know,” Combeferre says haughtily, then dissolves back into a comfortable grin. Enjolras snorts. “Three. I mean, I _had_ three. So this one’s four.” 

Grantaire has never seen ’Ferre down more than a pint or two of beer. 

“I’m getting drunk tonight,” Combeferre says. “Because, for one single night, to hell with politics. What more do I do right now? There’s nothing. Not tonight. Tomorrow will be awful, but if I drink enough tonight”—he brightens briefly—“I’ll be so sloshed I sleep through the first half anyway.”

“You’ve been busy,” Enjolras observes. It’s true. Combeferre and Eponine have been coordinating activist responses across the country, but especially in the states of the Senate’s few swing votes. 

“I slept five hours on Saturday night,” ’Ferre says, nodding. “Since then, well, it’s been less.”

“But did you call your senators?” Grantaire asks meaningfully.

’Ferre guffaws, and the arm slips free of Enjolras to pull out his phone so he can shove the outbound call history into Enjolras’s face. “Every single day.” He nods at Enjolras. “They love it when you call a lot.”

“There’s a competition,” Enjolras says, his unwillingness to be fun for Grantaire right now losing to his everpresent enjoyment of a story. “Chida in D.C., and Aiden, who’s here, and what’s-her-name in the other State office—Keisha? There’s this commemorative boot made out of, I don’t know, pewter or something, that some miners presented to the senator when she toured their mine once upon a time, and every month the office that took the most calls last month wins the boot.”

“Tell Aiden I always call him,” Combeferre says, and Grantaire has never heard this flirty edge in his voice. “Eponine calls D.C. Sorry.” He puts his hand back on Enjolras’s shoulder. “She sends her regrets, by the way.”

“Eponine was going to be here? For _this_?” If Grantaire didn’t know that Enjolras is horrified only at the basic fact of the party, not its quality, he might take offense at Enjolras’s tone. 

“The senator, too,” Grantaire says. “For obvious reasons.”

“Senator La _marque_ was going to... I can’t...” Enjolras is trying so hard not to let the frustration eat its way through him.

“She dotes upon you,” Combeferre is saying at the same time as Grantaire, cutting Enjolras off at the pass, says “I know you don’t want this. I know.”

“Then why the _fuck—_ ”

“Why, hello Councilman!” Grantaire says brightly over Enjolras’s shoulder. Councilman Hernandez wasn’t precisely walking _to_ them, but he was in close enough proximity that a greeting’s not out of order. “I’m so glad you could make it.”

“Glad to be here,” the man says, shaking hands with Grantaire and then with Enjolras, who is, with obvious effort, stuffing down the petty fury and drawing himself up into the passionate but dignified man of principle he plays in public. “We don’t see nearly enough of you around City Hall these days, Enjolras.”

“A nation in flames, all that.”

“Burning ourselves down for the insurance money,” the councilman chuckles dolefully.

“Same damn shit at the state house, you know,” says a throaty voice behind them. Oh hell. The mayor actually came. The horror haunting Enjolras’s face mingles strangely with the sudden thrill that blooms there. His relationship with her hasn’t always been friendly, but it’s always hung together on the gluey strength of their mutual admiration. Enjolras looks disbelievingly at Grantaire, who shrugs and smiles vaguely. “Buncha easy-ins sliding home on the Dem affiliation without having to stand for fuck-all.” 

Mayor Jackson grips Enjolras by the upper arm with one hand while shaking with the other. “Happy birthday, rabble-rouser. Quite the shindig you got going here.”

“Um, yes,” Enjolras says, taking in, as if with renewed surprise, the chit-chatting, wine-sipping hordes. 

“I’m sure you’re on the same page as the councilman here,” the mayor says, jerking her thumb, “about those goons in the capitol.”

“Someone’s got to oust them,” says Hernandez. “That platitudinous vaguely-liberal crap, it plays okay outside the cities, but that’s going to change. It’s changing. Have you looked at registration numbers? The kids are going to be voting, and they don’t want ineffectual, stuffy lifers uninterested in making actual social change.”

“Screw ’em,” says the mayor. “Our state, Enjolras—it’s liberal, whatever. It could be _radical_.”

Enjolras’s eyes are bright, listening. Grantaire sees the gears spinning.

“All we need,” she says, poking a finger at Enjolras, “is the right candidate.”

With no knife close to hand, Grantaire grabs an abandoned champagne flute and taps it energetically against his own. 

“Enjolras would like to say a few words!” he announces.

Enjolras glowers lightly, but is also already mounting a chair for a convenient vantage point. The friends and politicians and whoever else whoop.

“En-jol-RAS!” yells Musichetta. “En-jol-RAS. En-jol-RAS!” Other voices are joining in. It’s a small din of noise by the time it reaches crescendo and peters out.

“First off,” Enjolras says in the semi-quiet, “I do not know what is going on here. I am beginning to gather that this is a birthday party for me, because I am a human being who was, once upon a time, born.”

“Yeah!” someone hollers. “To Enjolras!” And there’s clinking and drinking.

Enjolras is going pink in the cheeks. “A birthday’s a terrible reason to celebrate someone,” he says. “I’m grateful to have all of you in my life, and to be fighting alongside you for a world that’s less awful. You make this world less awful, you know, for me. You do. Even you, Grantaire. Especially you, despite your decision to subject me to the shame of a celebration that I’ve done absolutely nothing to earn.”

The others laugh good-naturedly.

Grantaire pulls Enjolras’s head down for a kiss. “So earn it,” he mutters gruffly into Enjolras’s ear. Enjolras nods at him soberly, then raises back up.

“[Bryan Stevenson](http://www.readings.com.au/system/uploads/assets/0003/8326/7669fd007746bb97e53161acec708655.pdf) says we all deserve some unmerited grace. My whole life, friends—that’s what my whole life is, unmerited grace. Beauty I’ve done nothing to deserve. 

“There are people who live in constant danger because that’s what they’ve decided they have to do to make the world a better place. Whereas I write words together and get punching mad about a single roomful of intransigent senators.” He shakes his head. “There are more people in this room right now, celebrating me, than are going to be voting tomorrow morning on the future of every single one of our lives. 

“You people, you wonderful, kind people, you would know better than most of the people in that room. You know that people matter most. You know, I am so lucky to have you all.” He shakes his head again, but the anger seems to have dissolved into amused bafflement. “Even if you lack the judgment to realize that I deserve no praise for just—for _being here_ to see another birthday.”

Someone tries to sing, and Grantaire cuts them off.

“To Enjolras!” he calls out, raising his glass, and Enjolras, red but stalwart, stands there and bears it while everyone toasts to his continued health.

“Nice job,” he says to Enjolras a minute later, when he’s hopped down from the chair.

“Probably not what you meant, though,” Enjolras says, looking in what Grantaire hopes is supposed to be a seductive, all-is-forgiven manner at the general area of Grantaire’s cock. “When you said ‘earn it.’”

“No, that was great,” Grantaire says, although he is not opposed to having Enjolras in his pants at pretty much any time. “A good start.”

“Excuse me?”

“A start,” Grantaire nods. “I mean, your fucking hypocrisy astounds, Enj; if it was _me_ whining, you'd be like, ‘Grantaire, love is never undeserved; love and justice, when we get them, are always our due,’ or some shit. But I'm not you, so, here's what you get: You’re gonna earn a million accolades you don’t deserve, Enjolras. You’ve got to be able to take it.”

“What are you saying?”

“I see a bright future for you, young man,” Grantaire says, pulling Enjolras in close. “You want to know why all these people are here? These are your base." He pauses, for the drama. Living with a professional speechwriter, you learn some things. "We want you to run for office.”

—

_He’s run through, in his head, what happens next. Enjolras, startled and heartened at this renewed evidence of Grantaire’s esteem, will enter into his own era of political candidacy just as he enters everything: with full, cataclysmic commitment of body and spirit._

_Grantaire will have to caution him. “You’re not gonna win,” he’ll say, matter-of-fact and wry._

_“Nope. Not this time.”_ This time _, he’ll say. Of this, Grantaire is pretty sure. Enjolras is nothing if not tenacious—and Enjolras is sure as shit not nothing. Grantaire wants to drag Enjolras to his heart._

_“I’m glad you know that going in. Important to know that.”_

_“I’ll probably forget.”_

_“Important to know that, too. You have to believe you’re going to win even when you know you won’t, because otherwise, what the fuck are you even doing here trying?”_

_“I’m_ trying _to drag this contest to the left.”_

_“And you’re going to,” Grantaire will say, sliding his hand up Enjolras’s arm to grip the narrow muscles there._

—

Through the blazer, Enjolras’s arm is firm. Tense, even. Grantaire only now realizes there’s been no answer.

Around them, music continues, and people chatter, but the two of them hold, static, waiting for Enjolras to say something.

That look in his eyes—what is it? It’s like he’s searching inside Grantaire, like he’s finding answers. He shakes his head. Fuck. 

“No,” Enjolras finally says, words sliding slow as boulders. “You think I should because—because you love me. Respect me. And I love that you think I should. And I love you. As much as ever. Maybe more. Stop looking like that. Really. 

“But the trouble is, Grantaire, you’re wrong. You think because I’m right for you, I’m right for our society, for our country. But there are too damn many people like me running the place already. Look. You’ve seen where I grew up.” He has. A wealthy white enclave surrounded by other wealthy white enclaves, each just a tick higher or lower on the upward-mobility track. “You know I never had to pay a cent of the hundreds of thousands of dollars that Ivy League diploma cost. I’ve never wanted for anything essential. Never known real instability. Never needed to even _invoke_ a bunch of the fundamental American rights that other people in this country get denied on a daily basis.” 

His voice is rising. He grabs Grantaire’s hand and turns; he must know the guests are listening. Someone turns down the music and at that moment, Enjolras’s voice rings out, clear and true. “This country doesn’t need me!” There’s an uproar at this. “Fine,” Enjolras laughs brusquely, walking it back. “I don’t mean it like that. What I mean is, I don’t think I’m here to be run for office, or to govern. I don’t understand sacrifice in the right ways. I’m not a conciliator or a deal-maker. I don’t know how to accommodate other people’s needs. I want to rock the foundational scaffolds of this nation till they fail. I want to burn out the rot, then rebuild, stronger from the rubble. 

“Because I don’t understand loss.” His eyes, on Grantaire for just a moment, smolder. “I just _want_. I want a fucking better world, friends, just like you, but I’m not the person to take us there. I can help, but I can’t lead. I’m...” His voice drops. “When I think about being the guy in charge, it’s like, some kind of vertigo. Like someone’s walking over my grave. It just—” He looks at his friends beseechingly, then shakes his head once again. “It just wouldn’t end well.”

From the far end of the room, the mayor’s voice cuts through to them. “You promised us a candidate!”

“I promised we’d _try_!” Grantaire yells back.

“Where’d Kelvin go?” asks Enjolras.

From the middle of the room, Councilman Hernandez gives a little wave.

“I— Folks,” Enjolras says, his eyes asking Hernandez a question. “Folks, if you can stick around a little longer,” he nods at Hernandez, “I might have a suggestion to make.”

Hernandez calls up, “You gonna write my speeches for me?”

“Sure,” Enjolras says. “You might want to wait a few days before you commit to me, though. Chances are really good I’m getting arrested tomorrow.”

Laughter sweeps through the room, followed swiftly by applause that builds and then morphs into chants of “Her-nan-DEZ! Her-nan-DEZ!”

“You’re getting _what_?” Grantaire asks, because, come on, Enjolras hasn’t been arrested since before Grantaire knew him.

“We’re flying to D.C. in the morning,” Enjolras says, kissing him soundly. “Rahwa says it’s fine.” He smirks at Grantaire’s disbelief. “See, Grantaire? _That_ is how you give someone the courtesy of advance notice.”


End file.
